


what you see and learn

by iwanttoseethestars



Series: miscellaneous hannibal poetry [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Any and all feedback is appreciated, Canon Compliant, Eventual Fluff, Explicit Language, Extended Metaphors, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Free Verse, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter is a Softie, I'm new at this, M/M, Murder Husbands, POV First Person, Poetry, Post-Canon, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Prose Poem, Sassy Will Graham, Season/Series 02, Season/Series 03, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter, narrative poem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-18 11:55:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18699127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwanttoseethestars/pseuds/iwanttoseethestars
Summary: our voices may lie,but our words don't.





	what you see and learn

**Author's Note:**

> ‘(...) But if it had to perish twice,  
> I think I know enough of hate  
> To say that for destruction ice  
> Is also great  
> And would suffice.’
> 
> — Robert Frost, ‘Fire and Ice’

Our voices may lie —

his: warm and rustling, like browning leaves in the early fall

mine: icy, biting, midwinter-harsh

But our words don’t —

his: polished and good-humoured... or humoured at the least, carrying class and grace and murder

mine: fort-building and hostile but so painfully _obvious_ , goddammit... also carrying murder.

Fuck, maybe that’s why we’re so good for each other.

Perhaps our voices _don’t_ lie —

his is a cracking icecap, forced to crumble from violence below,

and mine a cold salve of sorts, stark and refreshing.

I guess our voices lie to everyone _else_.

Huh.

 

As I sit by a tamed fire with two very tame sparks, I realise:

it’s _disintegrating_ me.

Can’t live with his sub-zero smiles,

can’t live without that sustaining influence.

Trying to fit a wife and her child past this skull:

it’s _impossible_.

What’s barring them from entry is him, yes,

but it’s also myself.

_We are one and the same._

_You and I are just alike._

The presence of fire melts ice, yes,

but the water in its place will dampen

the flames,

the sparks,

the embers.

I will _destroy_ her —

I would destroy them _both_ —

if I stay.

Different as summer and winter.

_I feel like I’m fading._

_You and I have begun to blur._

 

Ironically, my saving grace arrives in the form of Jack Crawford

or perhaps he is the messenger for the true saviour,

the Great Red Dragon.

Far from heaven and God,

furthest from blissful ice,

he burns

 _un_ tamed.

 

We do not tame him.

We do not let him burn in his own glory.

We _drown_ him.

He is alight,

we are melting,

flowing together and crashing,

elemental.

 _Beautiful_.

It is only natural

we return to our source,

our doing,

our undoing,

weaving,

unweaving,

our Becoming.

Our embrace, our fall.

It’s all ours now.

It is only natural

I bring you down onto me —

 

_I bring you down onto me,_

 

as you smothered me first those years ago.

 

_as you smile, not letting me, but encouraging me._

 

We fall.

 

_All at once, we fall into one another._

_“Beautiful. You are so beautiful.”_

 

 _It’s beautiful,_ I said.

 

_“—all right? Will? Will, come back to me.”_

 

“Where’s your head?”

“On my pillow.”

 

_The feel of the pillow underneath my head —_

_the feel of your hand, resting lightly against my forehead._

“No need to check for fever,” I mutter. You’ve brought me back from delirium, _again_.

You chuckle. The bed shudders minutely. You’re less verbose in the mornings — it was surprising to me at first, learning you weren’t at full capacity all of the time.

We still continue to surprise one another. That, perhaps, is the most surprising thing of all. About all of this. But water, it seems, doesn’t always thrash and lash. Sometimes, it’s calm. Sometimes, it’s warm. Speaking of—

“Eugh, get off.”

I can tell you’re biting back yet another chuckle. Smug bastard.

“Changed your mind?”

I let out a scowl. “No, you took care of that plenty yourself.” I push your chest. “ _Off._ ”

You catch my wrists. I look up; something in your eyes has changed. I sigh a little. Your accompanying smile is wistful, now. Now, _this_ is a familiar scene. Your lips part slightly, your breath catches, then you frown.

See? Much less verbose.

My head falls forward to meet yours. You’ve never expressed apologies straight — not genuine ones, anyway. Eventually, I learnt that this wasn’t another product of your manipulations, but something you really struggled with.

That broke me, that new piece of knowledge. That time, my empathy didn’t fill in the blanks, but reflect, just as its purest form should.

And so you express apologies physically, instead. This was one of many things I had to adjust to — it wasn’t easy at first; it felt like a lie. But I accommodated, until I found I wasn’t accommodating at all, but _accepting_. You must’ve known, too, because that night, you wrapped me in your arms and whispered an endless number of things in your native tongue. _Apologies_.

Apologies that turned to thanks, and then to praise.

You hadn’t known at the time that I knew what you were saying — after all, what could heated water do but evaporate, right?

Later, though, I’d found myself laughing uncontrollably, the longest and highest and _truest_ I had laughed in, perhaps, more than five years, and it was all at your embarrassment. Your _embarrassment_! Jesus, _that_ was a good surprise to find behind the veil of Hannibal Lecter. A designer label you’d failed to cut from the inside of your person suit.

Right now, though, you’re ashamed — the ugliest emotion I’ve ever seen cross your face, even if it were not physically so.

But you hum appreciatively, the sound resonating across our joint foreheads, our blurred bone forts. I grip your undershirt — it’s early spring, so you still need one — and you pull my hands away, softly. You bring them upwards, gently. Your eyes are closed, tightly. You kiss each palm, tenderly, and a small, mournful sound escapes me. You turn my hands, or at least guide them, and I meet you halfway in strength and intent. And you kiss the backs of them, and the air is cool.

Waterfalls cascade down my cheeks, and they are kissed too — not away, just _within_. Because we’re still flowing within one another, constantly.

Rippling, we exchange quiet words, both trying to soothe the other.

Your cool, soothing voice speaks truth.

Mine, cracking and crumbling, reciprocates.

**Author's Note:**

> hello!
> 
> thank you so much for reading this. i'm not really a poem person, as you may have grasped after reading, haha. but at least it seems to be working out okay for me, considering this is my second Hannigram one in a relatively short period of time (woohoo!)
> 
> kudos serves as a perfect appetiser, but a good main course always includes comments ;p
> 
> love (bites???) and stabby embraces,  
> author-san <3
> 
> P.S.: hungering for more poetry, or perhaps other-fandom fanworks? check out my Wattpad of the same username! yeah you BET we got shameless self-promos in this house >:3


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